


keep the window open

by transvav



Series: if i'm found, i'll end up lost [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Dadza, Dream Smp, Gen, Not Canon Compliant., Realm of Mianite, and also the manhunts are sort of a part of it, dream is non human, it covers all the fights basically, jordan is a living myth, takes place over the whole like... smp, that affected how dream was raised kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transvav/pseuds/transvav
Summary: (but be careful at the edge)dream is raised on fairy tales and bedtime stories. and dream is raised knowing he will run.
Series: if i'm found, i'll end up lost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008657
Comments: 25
Kudos: 308





	keep the window open

**Author's Note:**

> jordan in the smp go brr p2 this time featuring phil being pulled in of course. also lowercase intentional. it's not NECESSARY to read all these lonely kids, but it helps in certain parts. 
> 
> warden jordan and ???? child of the end dream

dream knows about the captain.

mostly everyone in the smp does‒ the tale is an easy bedtime story for people like them, travelers and fighters and lost ones. the captain is _like them_ , or so the story goes, an out of place soul, a drifter. it goes that the captain is known, and respected, across universes, that his life is in the stars that he follows when he sails. the captain is a pirate, but had not always been‒ a farmer with a fisher father who’d taken him out around the coast in a young age, who’d nourished his love for the waters, for the gentle rocking of the boat and the lull of the waves against the hull, the wind in his curls. it goes that when his father had disappeared, the captain had grown up and longed to find somewhere _new,_ somewhere he could feel like he belonged. it took him ages, and then he _did_ ‒

in a land of gods.

it goes the captain became the champion of a goddess, the lady of the scales, woman of judgement and balance, and that the captain followed her dutifully where she went, his purpose finally fulfilled. the tale was one with a happy ending, as most bedtime stories were. he found a home, he found a place, and his longing was finally quelled. as they get older, it changes‒ the first realm is not home, so he travels through worlds to find the right place for him, so on, so forth. eventually, when the children are no longer children, the story is at it’s end, and it’s said the captain’s death had rung sorrow throughout the skies‒ it is his soul that becomes the star that sailors track to follow home at night. so the story says.

so yes, dream knows about the captain. dream knows about the myth of the man that lived in the god grown tree, the one that did not kill the dragon, but tamed her as though she was a common housecat, loved her and was loved by her in equal care. the individual stories are lost to his memory with time, but dream _knows,_ because dream was a kid with hopes, and wants, and‒ well. dreams. his own father had known that, known that out of every one of his kids, dream would be the one to take the stories the most to heart.

“you’re different from your brothers,” his dad had said one night. “all of you will leave me, someday, but they’ll do it gently, and they’ll drift as they go, and they’ll leave strings attached.”

“and i won’t?” dream remembers asking, his blanket up to his chin, the pillow nearly flat beneath his head. his youngest brother thinks that’s weird of him, to keep his pillow so flat, but this is a far better cry than the nights he’d sleep on the floor.

“you’ll leave _one_ ,” his dad told him. “and you won’t tug it taut and tight unless you really, really have to. i know it. i see it. you’re not gonna leave the same way they will, and you’ve seen why. they tied themselves too tightly to each other to let go with ease, and they won’t understand you until years from now. those boys are going to step out on the porch deck one day and leave slowly with the knowledge that they’ll come back, but _you_?”

and dream remembers the way the stars had looked out the window, that night, the feathers on his father’s back ruffling in the heating draft that ran through the house. remembers the way the frames had always been locked, in every room, so they’d be safe from monsters. he remembers the way he’d rigged it looser and looser over time, just to crack the glass and breath the air of the oncoming storms. remembers the way he’d wondered how big was too big to fit through the fully open space.

“you’re going to _run_.”

he doesn’t resent his father, far from it, because it’s the truth, and they’d all _known_. dream knows the captain because he _is_ , in a way, the captain‒ dream traverses across worlds and universes, and for a while, he never settles. he pisses people off and he picks fights and he hunts and is hunted‒ surprisingly enough, which is to say, to no one’s surprise at all, dream’s habit of sleeping on the floor comes in handy. and over time, the bounties faded, but dream and his hunters found fun in the chase. and then his hunters became his friends, and they became new brothers, and eventually, dream is gifted a realm all his own.

and dream has found a new home, and a resting place. for once, he feels like settling. for once, he can sit, and the constant buzz is quelled, is silent. dream finds comfort in friends, finds comfort in building a house, in mining through the nether and picking out the debris, in carving the runes onto the metal and dusting them with lapis for the magic to take proper hold, rinse, repeat. he is not bored, or desparate, or hungry for more.

but he’s unsatisfied. and it confuses him. it _bothers_ him. for once, he doesn’t feel like running‒ for once, he feels at peace, and he is left wondering if something went wrong, somewhere, if there’s a piece he’s missing that he should be chasing down. it’s an ache he doesn’t understand, and it grows stronger with every passing day. he doesn’t want to _leave_ , but after a while, he doesn’t know if it’s right of him to stay.

there’s a storm one night. the lighting crashes over the horizon, dances in a path along the line, while the waves rage unforgivingly. dream has not grown out of the habit of watching the night sky when he cannot sleep, and doesn’t think he ever will. he catches sight of the brightest star between the dark clouds, and, wistfully, sighs. the storm makes his heart race while his mind calms. _something’s coming,_ he thinks. _captain, please guide me on my way._

the star blinks, and disappears behind the clouds again. the rain is steady in it’s harshness, pattering restlessly against the ground just outside of the cave, slipping in slow rivers down the cracks, new waterfalls carving their way to the riverfront around his makeshift home. there is nothing strange, and the next rumble of thunder is in no way timed dramatically. the storm is normal. the stars are normal. nothing foretells of danger but his own mind and heart and soul.

and in the morning, george wakes him up with the news that tommy has arrived.

tommy, on his own, is not dangerous, not really. he’s clearly trained with techno, to a point, but tommy is‒ well. he’s _tommy_ , and while he’s a fast learner, he hasn’t exactly picked everything up yet‒ that’s the issue with training with techno. he doesn’t like to reveal his secrets. no, the issue with tommy is that tommy has _friends_ , and dream doesn’t trust his friends yet.

dream barely trusts his own blood.

the little tussle they have over the disks is nothing but a fun game, and they know it. dream would never willingly hurt tommy, _or_ tubbo. they’re kids, and despite some wild popular belief, dream isn’t a monster. it’s what comes before, and what comes after, that causes the most issues‒ before the tussle, is schlatt, and he feels like more of a one off issue. dream expects nothing after he bans him, gets a few whines out of tommy, but not with real anger‒ even the younger boy had noticed the way schlatt’s presence had made the world itself feel out of wack.

“just a bit too early,” dream overhears him whisper to tubbo. “i’m sure someday he’ll be fine to come back.”

and the after is wilbur, and what he brings with him. wilbur is a siren in his own right, as human as his father is, but his words are like silk, and tommy trusts his brother’s words more than he trusts the group that dream is with. so wilbur starts a nation, and tommy is at his side, and with tommy is _tubbo_ , and with tubbo comes jack‒.

(it should be said that dream likes tubbo in a way he didn’t think he would. tubbo is similar to him, but different, chaotic and intelligent, and tubbo aches not to run, not like he does, but there is something tubbo is _waiting_ for, and that, dream understands. it doesn’t help that dream sees him on some nights watching the stars from inside the walls of their little mockery of a nation. it doesn’t help that tubbo’s voice is not as loud as tommy’s, but can still be heard on the clearest of nights, when he gets to tell his story to keep the spirits high.

it doesn’t help, of course, that tubbo’s favorite story leaves everyone complaining, leaves everyone telling him it’s a child’s tale, leaves a bitter taste in dream’s mouth when tommy brushes it off as easy as anything. tubbo is optimistic, and bright, and he continues to tell it without fail, different chapters of the same books‒ unflinchingly, tubbo tells them about the captain, his favorite story.

and every night, dream listens from outside the walls, and smiles to himself.)

but wilbur starts a war, a _real_ war, and dream knows he’s become the villain. fine. _fine_. wilbur starts a war in _his_ world and claims he wants a piece of _his_ land, and dream can’t defend himself without wilbur talking over him. and so dream and his hunters go to war with l’manburg. eret offers his own hand in help, offers to be a spy, to be a traitor, and dream says _only if you want_ and _only if you’re sure_ and _only if you’re okay with them not being okay with you_ , because dream knows what that feels like.

and they win, because eret helps. tommy does a noble little thing that dream can tell is the phil in him, mostly, and offers a trade‒ his disks, again, for the freedom of l’manburg. it comes after a duel, which dream wins, and they don’t talk about it, but the little nation gets to be a nation, and dream can relax. the need to run comes up again, but just to _run_ ‒ not to leave, because this is still home. he slips away pretty quick, amasses more friends, but he’s still _there_ , still at home.

tommy writes him, while he’s momentarily away‒ asks for schlatt back. and though it leaves a gross feeling in the back of his throat, makes his entire being _scream_ with regret‒ every part of him is saying no, _no_ , don’t you dare, but tommy seems _excited_. and dream says yes, feels like maybe he’s done something right this time.

he comes back to a fucking _mess_ , worse than before, so, so much worse.

the momentary joy he gets out of seeing wilbur run is dashed when he sees tommy running with him. as politely as he can, he asks for his crossbow back from schlatt, and the new president is gracious enough to give it to him. “no hard feelings, big man,” the goat laughs, slapping him across the back with a smile that’s just off enough to make dream curious about his _real_ intentions. when he sees schlatt trying to hide his wince of pain, he’s grateful for the way his instinct drives him to wear his armor at all times, grateful that netherite is light enough to wear without issue. it makes him imposing. it makes him a bigger threat.

in the days that come, he’s just glad to see schlatt in pain at all. he’ll keep his position of neutrality as public as he can‒ he can’t deal with the mess that will come of his friends knowing he’s against _them_. but god, it makes him ache, to see tubbo in such distress, to see tommy so out of sorts, to see the world shifting uncomfortably. he promises himself to pogtopia, and their allies‒ techno is a presence he doesn’t expect, but he hopes it to be a welcome one.

(he ignores the fact that all three of them being here makes him more jittery than ever. running is a part of him‒ he and techno have fought, before, many times, and techno holds the lead in their ever going score. but dream can _run_ , and dream loves to run. but the brothers make him want to run _faster_ , and the problem is he can’t ever figure out which direction he’s trying to go. how many worlds did the captain go through until home felt right? how many stories were there that dream has forgotten?)

but then sapnap realizes his crossbow is missing. george spots that his backup armor is gone. bad and ant notice how often he flits off, how there are ingots gone from chests, the golden apples taken from the cupboard. the four of them watch closely, and pick up on the little things, and dream can feel the world going cold the more the distance grows between them all. he slips up, too easily, too much, and he _forgot_ , didn’t he? forgot they were his hunters first, forgot they know how to bind what he is, forgot they know how to keep him out. out of his own fucking _home_ , that he _built_ ‒

they cast him out just after the battle at the lake. he’d teleported away as per usual, stumbling slightly after the pearl shattered, and it was bad who’d caught him, and sapnap who was kneeling in front of him. his eyes were cold and hard and uncaring, and his voice was shaking when he asked, “why them?”

and what is dream supposed to say? that he doesn’t agree with schlatt, that his gut is telling him there’s something wrong, that he wants to _run_ , that this wasn’t what he wanted? that he’s _scared_ , scared of what this whole thing is doing to wilbur, scared of what it’ll do to tommy, scared in the way he was scared when techno lost parts of himself fighting for so long? scared that he’s going to end up the same way?

he takes too long to answer, and bad squeezes him tight. “we’ll call you back when this is over,” the hunter says. “we can’t have too many strong fighters on the wrong side, and with you _and_ techno... i’m sorry. we’ll bring you back.”

his anger is lost to the wind, as he feels george finish the incantation, must having done it somewhere that dream couldn’t see, having had those last few words ready for when dream either did or didn’t answer. and it _aches_ , when he lands on that island, so far out from nowhere‒ he keeps his stuff, and he’s lucky in that regard, it makes starting over easier. but the jungle is not easy to start in, and there’s something _off_ about it either way. looking into the darkness beneath the canopy makes him dizzy, vertigo on high, like there’s something there he shouldn’t be looking for, something that hasn’t _let him_ in. he is there uninvited, and he isn’t welcome. not yet.

so he hunts on the outskirts, eats the melons he finds and plants the seeds back into the fertile ground. eats the steak in the ender chest he’d brought sparingly, knowing his supply of meats is limited, if not completely gone for the time being, not that the hunters would know. or care. _they sent you here_ , he keeps reminding himself. _and they aren’t going to let you back_. he survives, because it’s not hard to survive on your own when it’s all you’ve ever been.

and one night, when the night is clear, he looks up. the north star is directly above him, bright and brilliant and glimmering. something about it is _different_ , though, than what he remembers, a sheen of color in the light that hasn’t been there before. some stars are like that, he realizes‒ the constellations of the soldier and the caveman are often a little blue, and the constellation of the knight shines almost red when the moon is halfway gone. it’s rare, and nearly invisible to the naked human eye, but it’s _real_. and when they do shine like that, it means something. he knows it does.

the north star shines purple, and dream realizes where he needs to go.

the jungle has not gotten any more inviting in the past few days he’s lingered around it’s edge, but he knows mobs will not spawn on the beaches. everything he’s fought so far has trailed out of the jungle itself in the night, shambling towards the little campsite he’d set up. but what he’s looking for, he knows, will be deeper in, tucked away in the center of this labyrinth, because that’s what it _is_ , he knows now. the magic is unfamiliar, but not entirely new. someone else has shaped this part of the world, and gotten a hold of that update _early_. his father had told him before that it was nearly impossible to add to a world where others lived‒ _nearly_ impossible, but not out of the question.

(the other day, he’d overheard whispers of wilbur on the line wondering if his father was proud of him. dream wonders the same thing, constantly. the wings on his back are hidden from the world, and they always will be, so instead he flies with his feet, branch to branch. falling is of no consequence. dream has never been afraid of heights, not in this way, not when his speed outdoes his own mind.

some deep, deep part of him longs, once more, for his dad, but he doubts he’ll come for him at all.)

the jungle is damp, even though it hasn’t rained once in the time he’d been banished there. but it’s not wet enough that the endermen won’t appear to him‒ still, he plans on seeking out a lava lake for the dryness it brings, and for the ease of access to the nether. he’s going to need blaze rods, and a few ghast tears, if he’s lucky, wouldn’t hurt either. he needs all the luck in the world, right now, and he hopes to whatever gods there are that he can find enough debris for one more ingot of netherite.

the lava pool is rather easy to find, actually, and he does spy bright purple eyes watching him close from the shadows, but he’s not focused so much on gaining pearls, right now, as he is getting somewhere else, somewhere he knows is going to keep him more alive than out here, and isn’t that a thought‒ the nether, to him, is _less dangerous_. he wondered about the striders, when he was young, asked if it was possible to sprint across the lava like that for him, and his dad had laughed, but not answered, ruffling his hair. he’d discovered later he _could_ , even if it was brief, but it is what he was best at.

he spawns in a fortress, and the shock of it makes him laugh. and laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_ , and he laughs until he cries, the porcelain mask finally coming off of his face as the breakdown comes. he can’t do this, damn it, it wasn’t supposed to _be like this_ ‒

how young was the captain, he wonders, when his father had been lost to the sea, and how _young_ was the captain when he had found home. how young was dream when he had run from his father and family, when he had taken his name and torn it apart and become someone entirely new. how young was the captain fighting in the name of the gods, and how young is _dream,_ fighting in his own name, fighting his own battles, banished and abandoned by people he trusted.

they’re all just kids, he keeps thinking. _we’re_ all just kids.

and yet here he is, once again, in a dimension out of place, surrounded by things that could kill him, and looking to kill them first. dream can run, yes, but just because he can doesn’t mean he _should_ , doesn’t mean he _has to_ ‒ does it? is he destined to be like this forever, he wonders? is the constant war a way the world is telling him he wasn’t meant to be here?

gathering the necessary requirements isn’t hard. he’s done it a million times before, but‒ it’s _different_ , this time. there’s no looming threat over his shoulder, no reason to keep glancing back. no one is hunting him, not this time, and it’s _weird_ to not have that pressure. the blaze rods leave burn marks in his leather gloves, and the ghast tears are difficult to catch on the precarious ledges. the nether wart farm is unnaturally depleted, but he knows there had been a piglin colony nearby rather recently. it doesn’t worry him.

the water nearly boils in the cauldron by the heat in the nether air alone, but he does, eventually, catch some into bottles without burning his fingertips. the wart becomes paste, the paste dissolves into the water, and from there, he takes one of the ghast tears. they are fragile, gentle things, crystalline and cold in the hellscape, like gemstones, like glass. they’re easy enough to crush in his fingertips and pour into the brewing station, and while it sits and beings to bubble, he starts to work on the blaze rods.

dream cracks the metal in half over his knee and catches the powder inside in a glass bottle. he repeats the process with all fourteen of the rods he’d managed to obtain, exceedingly careful not to get any of it onto his skin again, and then, when the two regen pots are finished, he pours a little bit of the blaze powder carefully into the stand for the next two bottles. none of these are for him, if he can help it. it’s all just precaution.

when it’s all said and done, and he’s sorted everything out, the extra ghast tears feel heavy in his pocket. he’s not sure if they’re necessary, yet, but it’s important that he has them anyways. just in case, he thinks, because he really isn’t sure anymore. he told them the end was off limits, but does his word even matter, anymore‒

he leaves the nether. he makes an ender eye, one at a time‒ cracks the pearls shell, pours the powder in, and swirls it around until the iris is a lime color and the pupil expands, just enough. it looks north, but when he throws it, it goes south‒ and so, south he travels. he catches it when it falls, and reuses it, mindful of the ever leaking liquid from the crack. this was a good one, dream thinks to himself. the shell is stronger. the eye hasn’t burst yet. he gets another three uses out of it before it does, eventually, rain down in scattered shards upon him. but it’s gotten him far enough in the jungle that he can’t‒

he’s on a path, he realizes rather stupidly.

more to the point, he’s on a _man-made_ path, with well worn dirt lined in round stone, hand-painted targets on the tree, soulfire lanterns and sea-glass windchimes. a fox brushes between his legs curiously, and his brow furrows‒ the little creature chirps curiously up at him, and sprints forwards, pausing in front of a curtain of vines where light was peeking from underneath the greenery, unnaturally bright in the depths of the jungle. the fox’s tail swishes slow, watching him, and when he does step forward, it seems to brighten, and darts through the entrance.

with nothing left to lose, so does he.

he’s greeted, immediately, by something so _pretty_ it hurts to look at, but when he adjusts‒

“oh my god,” he whispers to nothing, and the fox chitters at his feet, almost laughing at him. “oh my god, _no way_.”

this is not a normal tree. this is not a normal fucking tree, and this tree is _surrounded_ by update magic, berries that glow and candles that are dripping wax down the roots, and goats, _real_ goats, goats that aren’t in suits that turn his friends against him. there’s so much going on that dream feels overwhelmed, hands shaking, and he almost stumbles over as he realizes, almost as an afterthought, that he hasn’t exactly _slept_ properly in about a week.

but as he topples over, a figure emerges from a small pond near the roots, shadowed under the wood, and he sees a glimpse of bright red, and dark hair and pants, with something following them that was a bright and fluorescent teal blue. they were shouting _something_ , he could tell, but the voice was drowned out by the ringing in his ear, and he hits the ground, and all the lights go out as he feels, rather than hears, his mask crack off of his face.

* * *

dream wakes in a soft bed. the pillow is flat, and the blanket is made of soft cotton, a bright, grassy green, and his mask is not on his face. he can feel a cloth against his forehead, damp, but no longer cold. everything is still a haze, but he can make out the strap of his pack hanging off the bedpost.

for a good, long moment, if he keeps his eyes closed and curls the blanket up closer, he can pretend he’s somewhere else‒ can pretend he’d stayed out all night when it was raining fishing for a nametag with his dad’s best fishing rod, and that he’d gotten sick staying out in the cold and rain. he can feel the fever through his skin, his hair still wet, as his dad had lightly admonished him while tucking him into bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “silly boy,” his dad had said, but pulled the covers to his chin, and stirred a few drops of the turtle potion into a cup of lavender petal tea, holding it to his lips to help him drink. “i know you don’t like it, but it’s for helping you heal.”

the taste of lavender sits in the back of his throat even now, and he’s still blinking the fuzz from his eyes when he hears a door open nearby.

“oh, don’t‒ hey, lay back down for a moment, okay?” someone says, and he feels a light pressure on his shoulder guiding him back down to the mattress. “i’ll let you sit up once i’ve checked to make sure you didn’t get a concussion.”

“who ‘re you,” he mumbles, and grimaces at the odd way his mouth feels, dry and slow-responding. a glass of water is guided to his lips. he drinks, grateful, and licks at his lips when the cup pulls away.

“my name’s jordan. close your eyes for a second?” the stranger says, and takes the cloth from dream’s head. he can hear it dunk into a bucket nearby, and then there’s a soft and damp fabric wiped over his eyes, briefly. “that was coated in a potion of night vision. you should be able to see a little better, i know it’s dark in here.”

true enough, when he blinks his eyes open again, the room is a little clearer, and much easier to make out. the walls seem to be made of jungle bark and it’s all plainly decorated with oak furniture, and now, dream can see the man in front of him. the most outstanding feature is the dark dragon wings that stretch from his back, and just beneath it, the long almost cow-like tail that glowed near the end. his hair is dark and curled, braided back behind his pointed ears, and there are ink-like stains splattered across his ears and the back of his neck.

“thank you,” dream murmurs. jordan shines a quick light in both of his eyes and then nods, satisfied, helping him sit back up. “do you know where my mask is?”

“it broke,” the man says, “clean in half, when you fell. i have the halves here, if you want them.”

“please.”

dream waits patiently, eyes flitting around the room, still adjusting to the magic, as the man pulls the two pieces out of his inner pocket and places them onto dream’s lap. he rubs his hands together briefly, letting the magic build, and then picks both up carefully‒ there are shards missing, but that doesn’t matter much at all. this mask is all he has out here, and he’ll have to fix it best he can until he can go back, if he’s _allowed_ to go back. through his hands, the magic flows into the porcelain, and the crack merges and heals, for the most part, becoming it’s usual self, sans a chipped edge or two.

“you’re the admin,” jordan notes quietly. dream must’ve given him an odd little look, because he laughs a little awkwardly, looking back to the bucket of water and picking out the cloth, beginning to wring the excess from it. “i‒ just, you know. the whole magic without consequence thing. that’s usually an admin thing.”

“not a lot of people pick up _magic without consequence_ when they watch me fix the mask,” dream says, a bit wary now. “most of them just assume the mask itself is enchanted.”

“a lot of people watch you fix your mask?”

dream coughs, caught off guard. “no,” he laughs. “no, not usually.”

“but other than that it’s... not so much the actual magic that you use, as it is the general aura? you give off? that seems a little weird, i’m just‒ i’ve been around admins. or wizards.”

“...wizards?”

“yeah, that’s what we called them back at‒ back then.”

dream notices the hesitation, and his brow furrows. “back then?”

“i’m an old soul,” jordan laughs. “old enough that people think my life is a fairy tale, so i’ve heard. there’s a kid in this land that keeps coming by. telling my own life back to me.”

“...no shit,” dream says. there’s something uncomfortable in his stomach, a dawning realization that makes him shiver beneath the cotton blanket. it feels like ice spreading over his skin, building up in his throat. it tastes sweet and bitter, like unripe fruit, and he remembers with blinding clarity what he’d seen before he’d passed out.

the tree. not just _any_ tree, no, it was unlike any tree he’d ever seen, out of place and time, too far in the future, stuck in a past. there are parts of this story that are unlocking in the back of his mind, like he’s going through old chests, and it hurts, a bit, to think too hard, to remember all the things he’d left back in the attic at home.

“this is a god grown tree,” he says faintly, and in the corner of his eye, he sees the other man freeze in place, watches incomprehensible emotion flit across his face before he swallows and reaches for his sunglasses.

“i suppose you were told,” jordan says slowly, “about a man they called the captain, and his adventures across the realms. about his devotion to the goddess of balance, and about his endless trips to find a place to call his home. i suppose they told you of red framed glasses, and of pirate ships, and of lost loves and of lost lands, and i suppose they told you about the violet iris.”

when he meets dream’s eyes again, it’s with clear view, and sure enough, jordan’s‒ the _captain’s_ eyes are bright, unnaturally purple, the outer edge of the pupil ringed with a sliver of dark red.

“you’re a myth,” dream says faintly. “you’re a myth, and i’m dead. because you’re dead, if you’re real, but you’re _not_ real, you’re a myth‒”

“take your time,” the captain says, flushed red with embarrassment. “tubbo had the same issues.”

“ _tubbo’s_ been here?” dream shouts, shooting up further. “what the fuck!”

“yeah, i’m not really sure how he keeps getting here. this place is warded off to mostly everyone, the jungle shifted with her magic that way.”

“i followed an ender eye,” dream says. “i was trying to find a stronghold.”

“well, then,” the captain smiles. “you aren’t too far off.”

* * *

“can i ask why you’re going to the end?”

“can i ask why you have a portal in the base of your tree?”

“fair enough,” the captain says, tail flicking behind him, but he doesn’t answer, and so they walk in relative silence, down, down, and down. the tree is well decorated, but it’s impossibly dark, and if it hadn’t been for the night vision, dream would have completely missed the entrance to the staircase at the very bottom entrance.

the whole place _feels_ like a stronghold, but the energy is different in a variety of ways. it’s still cold, but not the biting sort of chill dream usually knows‒ it’s more like a chill breeze on a summer day, welcome and wanted, the cool of shadows to avoid the sun. the sweet, bitter, fruit-like taste is back against his tongue, and intermingled is that lingering lavender tea. it smells like the shore, though, like seasalt and sand, and the mix of sensations is almost overwhelming.

the captain’s tail is his only source of light, but dream has a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t _need_ the light‒ there are no torches, no end rods, no lanterns. and dream knows what night vision looks like, when it’s been taken, and the other man has no effects on him at all, no trails of deep blue glowing around his eyelids. the captain, dream realizes, is _blind_ , or is very close to being blind, and it doesn’t matter at all.

“you won’t spawn back here,” the captain eventually says. dream blinks out of his own mind and stumbles when he realizes they’re at the bottom‒ an arm shoots out and catches him, steadies him from falling forwards. and now he sees the stairs just _end_. there’s no floor‒ just the portal, starry and deep. another bout of vertigo washes over him‒ this is not the first time dream has been to the end, and he knows it won’t be the last, but this feels _different_ , and he doesn’t like it.

“give me this, at least,” he finds himself saying, and turns to look at the other. “is the dragon dead?”

and the captain, champion of the goddess of the end, lost sailor of the seas of void, shifts his own dragon wings and gives dream a knowing little smile that reminds him of when his father would catch him on the roof, watching his brothers play fight in the yard.

“why would she be?”

dream jumps, used to the instant pull of dry air that hits when goes through, and hits the ground running with stars still in his eyes.

* * *

after he leaves tommy and tubbo on the beach in front of the jungle entrance, dream feels a tug in his own gut. he’d gotten what he needed from the end, and expects that the boys will be safe with the captain for a time. _knows_ that the boys will be safe, until they’re called back, and they will be called back. because _he’s_ being called back. which means things are coming to a close.

he also knows jordan will call phil.

(dream isn’t keeping phil out on purpose. he couldn’t if he tried. the gate has always been open to phil, because phil’s sons have strings tied home, and dream couldn’t shut him out if he _wanted_ to, not that he does. every child needs that connection, and the way tubbo acted before he left, jordan may or may not be that figure for him‒ no matter.)

but the tug on his gut is familiar‒ he feels the banishment lift. he can go back, if he wanted. to his home. to pogtopia. to l’manburg. he knows the second he does, things will go _wrong_ , and he wants so badly to just‒ to just _run_. he wants to leave, he wants to sprint across oceans, wants to dash across treetops. dream has never so terribly longed for his wings to be free, because he wants to fucking _fly_ , dammit, wants to escape the constant wars.

the stories of the captain lied, he thinks, thinking of the man in the tree who was too calm and too sad and too resigned to his fate. the sailor without a place to stay, the ever-traveling lost soul. if things were better for the captain then he wouldn’t be here in the first place, would’ve settled in his first realm, and the world would’ve given him respite, but even after how many years of service, the man is trapped in his duties, and dream feels the same, and fears tubbo will be the same, and fears‒

he lands in the white house. schlatt drops his wine when george yelps.

“...big man!” schlatt finally says after pouring himself another glass‒ it immediately sloshes out when schlatt gestures, and dream watches impassively as the president swears to himself and just throws the glass onto the carpet altogether. “welcome back, dream, my man, big d‒”

“ _don’t_ call me that,” he says right away, taking a step back. he’s wary of bad, ant, and sapnap at the door, but they won’t be an issue until he tries to leave. “we can stick with dream.”

“dream it is,” schlatt says, all smiles. “not trying to antagonize god, or whatever, just wanted to apologize for what happened a couple weeks ago.”

“...the thing where i was banished?” he asks incredulously. “you’re trying not to antagonize me, but you’re admitting that you had me banished.”

“no, no, no‒ well, yeah, a bit, but no!”

the goat stands‒ and dream _knows_ he’s a ram, but he can’t find it in himself to give a fuck one way or the other‒ and smiles, taking a few steps forward. dream spares a quick glance at george, who readjusts his goggles over his eyes, watching carefully. his hand isn’t over his sword, but dream knows better, and in an instant, the second schlatt asks, dream will be in a lot of danger.

“can i ask you something, dream?”

“sure.”

“how many times have you killed the ender dragon?”

that sinking feeling starts again. “not sure,” dream says. “but i haven’t done it here.”

“ _really_ ,” schlatt says, and dream’s entire body twitches when he motions towards george. his feet ache, and the soles of his shoes seem to burn‒ the hunter steps forward, and pulls something from his pack that makes dream almost whine.

“what did you do,” he whispers. “what the _fuck_ did you do‒”

“i have a proposition for you,” schlatt starts, but dream’s entire soul is screaming.

“i fucking told you _not to go to the end_ ,” he screams, and sapnap laughs bitterly behind him, something horrible glinting in his eyes.

“ _you_ did!” he says, like it’s an excuse, like that makes it okay. “just because you weren’t in the same section doesn’t mean you were invisible to the rest of us!”

“gentlemen,” the president snaps, and dream tears his eyes away towards george again. “dream.”

“bastard,” he hisses, and schlatt only laughs.

“tell pogtopia we made a deal,” he shrugs. “you’ll get it back when they’re wiped out.”

there’s thunder across the realm. no one but dream hears it, no one but dream recognizes what’s happening here. dream doesn’t have to make this deal. dream doesn’t have to be against them, dream doesn’t have to be a part of this fight. except for what george has. no one but dream can feel phil meeting jordan far, far away in the end, and no one but dream knows that soon enough, wilbur will pretend he hasn’t changed, and tommy and tubbo will go back.

no one but dream hears his father’s voice reminding him of who he is.

“i’ll move the tnt,” dream says, and finds some stubborn delight in how schlatt’s face twists when he disappears without hearing another word.

* * *

dream’s in the nether when he hears jordan’s voice. his brain makes the connection‒ jordan, to tubbo. tubbo, to tommy. tommy, to wilbur, and techno. and wilbur and techno to‒

_run_ , his mind laughs. _run, dream, like your father said you would. run away like the captain, never settle, never find home. keep going, dream, because everyone you care for hates you in the end, don’t they. used like a weapon, used like a tool. you have something worth fighting for, now, but you’re going to leave anyways._

the group steps around the corner, and catches him sitting on the stairs that lead up to the blaze spawner.

“ _oh_ ,” tommy says, and the spite in his voice makes dream curl in on himself. “it’s you.”

the captain lingers behind the group, brow furrowed. tubbo’s hand is tight in the red coat, eyes darting back and forth between tommy and dream. wilbur and tommy are in the forefront, and techno is just beside. and there, though, is phil, his wings folded up neat against his back, blue eyes clear as he watches tommy turn away. he looks back to dream, though, as wilbur shuffles his coat and turns away. tommy rolls his eyes and readjusts his neckerchief. “c’mon, philza, we’re _ignoring_ him, he’s a liar and a traitor.”

phil lingers, though, turning his head away. dream can’t help the way his leg bounces restlessly, especially when techno makes a displeased noise, messing with small ponytail‒ his own scar across his face itches. it hasn’t healed right, but he didn’t exactly have the time. he’s lucky techno hadn’t recognized‒

it doesn’t matter, he tells himself, drowning out the conversation. they haven’t left yet, with wilbur and tommy arguing over which way the portal that leads into eret’s castle is. he can sort of hear jordan explaining what’s been going on to phil as best as he can‒ the captain is an outsider, but he knows the sides, and the score.

“...and then dream, apparently, made a deal with schlatt.”

he flinches. tommy grumbles, and dream can’t help the way his leg bounces faster, the way he shifts his grasp on his axe. there aren’t any blazes spawning. he feels like the world is torturing him for what he did, for agreeing, but he had to‒

“what was the deal?” phil asks, and jordan shrugs.

“schlatt gave him something, apparently,” wilbur hums, and dream pulls a blaze rod out of his pack, fiddling uselessly with the metal, fidgeting. why the _hell_ won’t they just walk away‒ “and now we’re in deep shit!”

“i’m right here,” techno drawls, and tommy scoffs.

“we’re still screwed, blade, for all we know‒”

"you could've called me before," phil says quietly, and everyone else falls silent. the captain and tubbo watch a little ways back. "you could've called me at all."

wilbur makes some noise of offense, something to convey a _we didn't need you_ \- techno grunts, ashamed, a sort of _yeah, probably_ -

but it's tommy that's silent, and after a moment, he lets out a little bit of a noise that dream doesn’t know how to recognize.

phil's gaze doesn't leave him. he pushes past the others and comes closer, kneeling down, puts his hands on dream's shoulders, and dream can feel every inch of himself crumbling, because‒

(when he was little, very little, when he didn’t have a mask or a hoodie and he didn’t know that axes were better, when he was alone and scared and all he knew was how to run the length of the fortresses and how to put out flames without burning his hands. when he could read the enchanting language but not english and he lived off of the mushroom soups that he’d had to learn to make. when one day a man came from a ruined portal that wasn’t ruined at all, and saw him there, and asked him if he wanted a place to stay.

when he was little, and he went to a world where he wasn’t the youngest and he wasn’t the oldest, and he was too late to join the exact group his brothers had formed, and he was different in a way they didn’t quite _get_ , but his dad knew and his dad taught him everything he could, and his dad told him more stories about the captain than he told his brothers‒

“did the captain ever find a home?” he remembers asking, and remembers his dad’s hand in his hair hesitate.

“it wasn’t about the place,” he’d said. “it was never about the place.”)

"when i told you you'd leave," phil murmurs, "that didn't mean you weren't allowed to ask for help anymore, clay."

dream shakes. phil undoes his mask, gently, and sets it aside, brushing loose hair from his eyes.

"you're still my son. can't run from that."

he shatters, and tilts forwards. something clatters to the ground behind them, but it doesn’t matter, not right now, not when phil smells like sea salt and sulphur and gunpowder and copper, when it feels like things are okay again even when they aren’t.

“what does he have over you?” phil whispers, and dream’s fingers tighten into his cloak as he buries his face further into his shoulder. “ _clay_.”

“...the egg,” he whispers. “and my friends, he has‒ he did something to them, and i think‒”

“oh, good,” phil says, and dream hiccups in confusion as he pulls away. “you’ve finally figured it out.”

his eyes flit over to where the others are without thinking. his brothers look‒ well. wilbur looks like he’s reevaluating everything he’s known, and tommy looks rather the same, blinking over and over again to clear his mind, but _techno_ , techno looks a bit horrified. it’s his sword that was on the ground and he’s even gone so far as to take off his own mask, watching them both.

“if you’ll let us back in again,” phil says, “we can _help_.”

“it doesn’t mean you’ll stop running,” jordan adds, tubbo tucked into his side. “you’ll always be running, know that for a fact, because it’s just a part of who you are. but this time, when you run‒”

“you leave more than one string behind,” his dad says. “and you have something to run back to.”

“...i didn’t think you’d come if i called,” he whispers, and phil laughs sadly, helping him to his feet.

“you never tried.”

* * *

they do not go to eret’s castle.

the tree is much grander than dream remembers it being. tubbo disappears up to his own floor, shooting tommy a look‒ shooting _dream_ a look, and then it’s the six of them on one floor, with the captain being _very_ out of place.

“the egg is your right, isn’t it?” jordan asks quietly, and dream nods slow, and jordan nods along. “you’re bound to it. bound to the dragon, too.”

“how’d you‒”

jordan’s wings shift on his back, and his tail whips as he takes himself towards the water elevator. “i’m a child of the end in a _lot_ of different ways.”

“that wasn’t in the stories.”

“the stories aren’t always true,” jordan shrugs. “after all, i’m not _dead_. i hope.”

with that, he slips away in the stream, and dream tucks further into himself on the bed while his brothers and his father keep to themselves in a mildly uncomfortable silence. his leg starts bouncing again and he shifts his mask back and forth in his hand, the porcelain cold against his fingertips.

“why’d you run,” wilbur starts with after a long moment, and phil snaps to look at him. “no, it’s a serious question, why the _hell_ did you run‒”

“because i let him,” phil says. “damn it, wil, he wasn’t _like_ you.”

“well, yeah, no shit,” tommy says. “clay was always a little different, the only fuckin’ one of us who was close to being the same was _techno_ ‒”

“i’m sorry,” techno murmurs as an aside as their argument continues. he’s the closest to dream, right now, besides phil‒ he’s a bit touch averse, and he always has been, but he shifts closer and takes dream’s hand carefully. “i didn’t‒ for a while i blamed you for leaving us, but then i realized we were kind of the issue, huh?”

“big of you,” dream says, “to readily admit that.”

“and you will never hear it again,” techno grumbles. “but it was us that drove you away. we didn’t understand. i think _some_ of us still don’t understand but i... think i get it now.”

“hey. it’s how otherworld kids are.”

“mmm,” techno grunts in agreement. “so... end baby, huh?”

“clay!” tommy interrupts, and dream twitches in place. his grimace must be visible, and tommy grimaces too‒ “that’s _weird_ , innit. call you that‒ anyways, listen. what you said, before. about not being on my side, i‒”

he falters, unsure, but there’s something in the way wilbur and phil have fallen silent, something in the way tommy’s fingers twist over each other in order to sort out his mind. it’s familiar in a way dream hadn’t realized he’d _missed_ , and it makes him breathe a little easier.

“i didn’t mean it,” dream says. “i didn’t mean any of it. you’re my‒” he stumbles over his words, briefly, but he swallows down his anxiety for a moment. “you’re my _brother_ , tommy. all i wanted was for you to be safe. wilbur just liked to pick fights.”

“okay,” tommy snorts, and looks away, but dream can see the way he relaxes. “okay, that’s‒ okay.”

“...wilbur,” phil eventually says, and dream glances at his older brother hesitantly.

wilbur meets his gaze, and dream inhales at the tears in his eyes. “i’ve made... a lot of _choices_ ,” he starts, and tommy mutters something under his breath. “and not all of them were for good reasons, and i get that. but i think one of my worst mistakes was‒”

“please don’t,” dream whispers. “not right now. i don’t think i have the mental capacity to unpack everything, right now.”

“okay,” wilbur says, and his voice shakes. “i’m sorry. i missed you.”

“we all did,” phil says, and the other two nod in agreement. “and we’re glad to have you back. to _really_ have you back.”

“what now, though,” tommy asks, and dream shrugs, wiping the tears from his eyes. “can’t very well just have schlatt kicked out, can we‒”

“might be a solution, for that,” comes tubbo’s voice, and they turn to see him descending down the stairs, jordan close behind. “apparently cap’s goddess said he’s allowed to fight!”

_goddess_ , techno mouths in confusion, and wilbur blinks.

“how does that‒”

“dream,” jordan cuts him off, glancing over, and he looks up. “what are we doing?”

and dream inhales a slow breath, and tries to still his leg.

he thinks about the stories he was told when he was little and how none of them are exactly what he expected, and how maybe none of them are fully true, but he thinks about the parts that _are_ ‒ a lost soul who travels, who runs, who flies and sails and _moves_ , across worlds, bound to his goddess, bound to the end no matter where he goes. a lost soul who does not have a set home like others may, but instead, carries his home with him, in his heart, in his mind, at his side. the captain has a part of home _here,_ in tubbo. and dream, dream has a home here in the smp, but not so much in the cliffs and the rivers and the tracks and the pathways, and he does not have a home in the nether, or in the end, where he was born. dream’s home chases him when he runs, and dream’s home fights with him to train, and dream’s home is in the people he has attached himself to, in his hunters, and in his brothers, and in his father and in his favorite stories.

for the first time in the past few months, he is not itching to run like he used to.

“well,” he says, and plants his feet steady on the ground. “there’s a few things we need to go over.”

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://transandor.tumblr.com)  
> don't expect much from me because all i am is a mianite stan but you know how it is. i'm desperate for attention.


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